


steady

by mm01



Series: // [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, M/M, Neil Has A Nightmare, again it's not necessary to read others in the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 02:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm01/pseuds/mm01
Summary: He slowly sits up, presses his back flat against the headboard, and Andrew’s hand slides to his carotid artery. His fingers tap along with Neil’s pulse as it slows its erratic beat.It is 4:27 am and they are in Columbia.





	steady

Neil wakes sweat-drenched and cotton-headed.

He doesn’t immediately know where he is. Sheets tangle his legs and he kicks, frantically, his heartbeat thrumming hard and fast in his ears.

Hysteria rises sharp and tart like bile: in the quiver of his hands, the catch of his breath, the panic constricting his lungs and pooling thick black tar in his chest. 

He sucks in one ragged breath and chokes on it and then there’s a hand on his arm and it’s Lola’s hand, and she’s heaving him up with purpose and her hand is on his bare slick back and pushing him forwards, blood runs down his chin and down the back of his throat and he still can’t breathe, he still can’t breathe, she spreads her fingers wide and flat at the base of his neck and she says: “Neil.” 

And she’s dead, still dead. And he’s breathing with measured, deliberate inhalations; Andrew’s slow, steady voice comes to him in fragments and he can only recognize his name: Neil, Neil, Neil.

He’s Neil. 

His legal name is Neil Abram Josten. He is a fox; he is co-captain; he is a sophomore and he is safe. Neil counts to ten in: Spanish, English, French, German, Russian. 

Andrew’s hand is still on his neck, and he focuses on the physical sensation of fingertips digging into skin. He slowly sits up, presses his back flat against the headboard, and Andrew’s hand slides to his carotid artery. His fingers tap along with Neil’s pulse as it slows its erratic beat. 

It is 4:27 am and they are in Columbia. 

The contours of Andrew’s face—hard, angular, wide-jawed and rough-skinned—sit sharper in the dim light. 

Andrew’s eyes are narrow and heavy-lidded; his lower lip plump and chapped. His nose is slightly crooked from nasal fractures left unset and his eyelids are hooded; blunt eyelashes casting shadows over the jut of his cheekbones. 

Neil stares, intently; cataloguing. Andrew stares back, eyes cool and searching. Blood beads warm and wet on Neil’s lip where he bit it through and Andrew checks it with one clean swipe of his thumb. And then he's up—Neil tracks his progress as he pads around the room, bare feet on hardwood floor, and he pushes open windows, pulls up blinds, flicks on bedside lamps. 

Their room is awash in light. The cool night air is a balm on Neil’s sticky skin, and he kicks his sheets free. Andrew’s glance is a light, considering weight on his prickling back as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and plants his feet down to the carpet. The mattress dips as Andrew takes up post behind him. He hears the quiet rustle of keys.

“Do you need to leave?” Andrew says evenly. 

“No, it’s—no. She's dead. Lola.”

Andrew considers this. “Had she not been already, I would have taken care of it myself.” 

Neil laughs; a low, strangled exhalation. “I don't know how kindly the FBI would take to that, Andrew.” 

“I fail to see where that is my problem.”

Neil flops backwards onto the bed and sighs; a deep, shuddering breath. He focuses on the rise and fall of his chest and notes the clatter of keys to the nightstand. 

Andrew lights a cigarette and passes it to Neil. His hands are still shaking so hard that ash dislodges and falls to the comforter. Neil watches Andrew. Andrew watches the ceiling. 

They do not sleep nor speak.


End file.
